


Professionals

by fleurdangoisse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bickering, Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9347306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdangoisse/pseuds/fleurdangoisse
Summary: “You know, Gaby, some people genuinely like to do nice things for others,” Napoleon says over the rim of his glass. (He really and truly cannot help himself anymore, and he thinks he deserves some credit for holding out as long as he has.) “Difficult as that may be to believe, in Peril’s case…”Illya shoots him a murderous glare that he’s happy to disregard under the circumstances, as backhanding him through a wall would undoubtedly involve the Russian losing his place. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Cowboy. It makes you sound even more of the fool.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Why haven't I written anything for this fandom before? I'm not sure. It has all of my favorite things and the community is A+.

“Surely you must have something better to do with your time,” Gaby says, her voice bored in a calculated way that demands to be amused. Never one to ignore her demands, Illya rises to the bait admirably. 

“This is important,” he says, “for mission.” His eyebrows creep up several centimeters, daring Gaby to contradict him, but he doesn't look at her. Illya’s eyes are fully occupied in his work, immaculately-groomed blond head bent over her hand as he makes repairs to one of her artificial fingernails. False nails are the only way to hide the wreck Gaby makes of her natural ones while she’s not playing a role - although apparently work days can be just as bad. Some of the nails are only chipped, but most are completely ruined and have had to be soaked off. And this was _after_ she cleaned the engine grease and dried blood seeping into every crack.

Ilya nevertheless considers the night to have been a success. They retrieved the target information with only two casualties: Gaby’s expensive manicure and Solo's arm. The American has, of course, used this as an excuse to invade their hotel suite, sprawling across the sofa while he nurses his stab wound and a large glass of whiskey. “You will destroy your cover if you appear tomorrow like this,” Illya says, glancing up at her now. With another agent that might be the end of the conversation, but Gaby has never been one to ignore a dare, either. 

“I'm just saying that I could have gone to a professional,” she says, propping her magazine against the arm of her chair so she can turn the page with her free hand. “They really charge very little, and I could even get a new color.”

He pauses, tweezers halfway to the waxed paper where the next nail rests. “You are saying my work is not professional.”

(Napoleon halfway opens his mouth to crack wise, but hears the danger in Illya’s tone and fills it with liquor instead. He's provoking, not suicidal. Gaby, though...Gaby can say whatever she wants. He doesn’t seem to know it, but the Red Peril would rather tear off his own hand and eat it raw than raise it against their girl. Solo rather wishes Peril would hurry up and work that out for himself; as amusing as it is to watch him shrink from her like an attack dog spooked by a kitten, their arguments could be so much more _entertaining_ if he weren't so obviously holding back. 

Well. They don't do anything else for Napoleon's benefit, so he supposes he shouldn't expect too much.)

“I am saying that this can't be how you imagined spending your night,” she says, toying with her words before twisting the knife. ( - does she even know she’s doing it, Napoleon wonders? Maybe not. She plays the innocent so well that it’s hard to imagine her cruel. But then again, he knows what women look like when they bite back a smile.) “ _Mein Gott_ , Illya, you are sensitive.”

Predictably, Illya stiffens and leans away from her even as he returns to the task of perfectly gluing down the little oval of pink acrylic. “No, you could not go to professional,” he says flatly, as if she hadn’t replied at all. “One nail, yes. But this? How would you explain?”

She shrugs her shoulders, nearly making him smear glue across the backs of her fingers, and pretends not to notice his scowl. “Perhaps I lead an interesting life. I would have come up with something. Are we questioning my work, now?”

“You are not bad spy-”

“Not _bad_!” Gaby pulls her hand away again. “I think you would like to rephrase that.”

“I would like you to let me finish what I am doing,” he rumbles. 

“You first.”

Faced with an obstinate Gaby, there are only so many options. Illya chooses the most sensible one and holds out his hand with a deep sigh. “You are a good spy. That is not in question.” 

She nods imperiously and places her hand across his palm, allowing him to return to work. Shockingly, she stays quiet for several minutes, seeming to have lost the thread of their conversation. Napoleon is just beginning to wonder what would happen if he reminded them of his presence when she says, “So that is not why?”

“Why…?” Illya is in the middle of shaving down a broken edge. It really is a ridiculous sight, the way his enormous fingers hold hers delicately in place. (Ridiculous, touching - one or the other, anyway. Napoleon is rarely certain of the difference.)

“Why you are fixing my nails. You agreed I am a good spy, so why could I not go out in the morning to have it done?”

“You know, Gaby, some people genuinely like to do nice things for others,” Napoleon says over the rim of his glass. (He really and truly cannot help himself anymore, and he thinks he deserves some credit for holding out as long as he has.) “Difficult as that may be to believe, in Peril’s case…”

Illya turns to shoot him a murderous glare that he’s happy to disregard under the circumstances, as backhanding him through a wall would undoubtedly the Russian involve losing his place. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Cowboy. It makes you sound even more of the fool.”

Gaby’s eyes narrow at Illya slightly. The makeup still smeared across her heavy eyelids only exaggerates the gesture. “You don’t think anyone else would do it the way you like,” she says accusingly.

“What? No. Now you are being silly,” Illya says, but it’s half-hearted and he obviously knows when he’s caught. “This is for mission. It must be perfect.”

“I knew it! Isn’t it bad enough that he chooses all my clothes?” Gaby complains, looking over his head to Napoleon. “What am I, a little dress-up doll?”

“You’re cute enough,” he says, ducking just in time to avoid the newest issue of some _Autoteile-Katalog_ or another. “Gabs, _Gabs_. You really must learn to take a compliment.”

“First you must learn how to give one, Solo.” She slides down in her chair with a huff. “You are both impossible. Illya, aren’t you done yet?”

He smooths a coat of tinted lacquer over the crack he’s just filled in. “Mm. Nearly. Then it has to dry.”

Gaby groans, but holds still long enough for him to finish. It’s difficult for her, not being able to do anything with her hands. It’s not that she had anything particular planned, but she would prefer to keep her options open. “What will you do if I break them again tomorrow?” she demands. 

“Then I will scold you very harshly,” he says, the threat empty. They all know he had no words for her when she ruined a pair of sixty-franc shoes while running across rooftops, or handed him a late-season Yves Saint Laurent covered in grass stains. “And after that I suppose I will repair them again. You cannot look like chop shop girl and play heiress.”

“That’s very professional of you, Peril,” says Napoleon, just considering whether he should pour himself another glass. Gaby answers that question by reaching out and taking the bottle for herself, despite his look of dismay. 

“Really, Cowboy. I am surprised you recognize such a thing,” Illya says as he begins packing away the kit. (And just like that, the order of the night has turned to _let’s both gang up on Napoleon Solo_ , which is a game that Napoleon likes much less than _let’s pretend we don’t like each other_.

He puts up with it for thirty minutes, after which he decides that they have no intention of letting up, and waltzes out with the rest of the liquor cabinet tucked inside his jacket. It’s a very petty revenge, but Napoleon lives by the rule of aiming high and taking what he can get.)

“Thank you,” Gaby says grudgingly as they pull their suitcases out of the closet to prepare for bed. “Even if they are ugly.”

There are a lot of ways that conversation can go, including the expected _what do you mean they are ugly_ and a protracted fight. What she gets instead is a look of surprise and a gentle “you’re welcome,” followed by Illya disappearing into the other room without further comment. Gaby finds herself disappointed and doesn’t quite know why.


End file.
